


The Flatmates

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:58:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first night of Sherlock and John's living together, complete with Chinese at two in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Flatmates

The war doctor exhaled loudly, his breath interrupted by a small laugh, “I haven’t done something like that in a long time,” he sputtered. He and Sherlock Holmes were making their way up the stairs, exhausted from chasing a cab, on their first night together as flatmates.

John had just met the detective that day, and while he was forward, strange, and very tightly wound, John felt his sore shoulder soothe itself while he walked behind him, his lungs still hurting from the run. John relaxed into himself, forgetting that he had left his cane in the restaurant they had bolted from.

Sherlock’s laughter was also a simple remedy for John’s war flashbacks, seeing as the spinning lights of the street as the men rushed past could’ve triggered a living nightmare for him.

That small chuckle escaped the tall man when he said, “Done what? Chase a cab? I do that nearly every week.”

"That," the breathless man’s pants became weaker and farther in between as he settled into a chair in the living room, "and just running general."

"The cane!"

"Ah," John’s cream jumper was damp with the misty London air and with his own sweat, his round, worn face flushed and smiling from his seated form in the deeper chair.

Sherlock joined him in the center of the flat in a seat across the way. The detective’s black fitted suit jacket and white dress shirt crinkling slightly as he folded himself down into relaxation as well.

John looked about the flat.

Behind John’s chair, there was a small kitchen to the right of the staircase, but the kitchen table was occupied by a chemistry set instead of hot food. The mantlepiece to John’s left were grand and dark, a heavy fireplace resting below it.

Besides the various bookshelves, art pieces, and interesting relics from cases, there was an appealing wallpaper to John’s right and a window with a violin stand in front of him.

The pain in his chest lessened both with his comfort and with Sherlock’s voice.

"Admiring the place?" 

"Yes, it’s interesting."

"Just… interesting?" Sherlock clasped his slender, pale fingers together and watched John admire the flat once more.

John met his eyes and said, “I’m just getting used to it. I’ll be living here, it seems.”

Sherlock nodded. That thought alone made him excited. The only people he ever talked to, besides Lestrade and his clients, were Mrs. Hudson and on occasion, his older brother, Mycroft. Although with them, he didn’t shoot the breeze about the interior design.

John attempted to stand up, but his legs were still jelly-like from the chase, and he gave up with their strange sensation coursing through his nerves and plopped back down in his chair.

Although Sherlock knew what his flat looked like, watching someone else interact with it was fascinating. Did John know that that wooden cat statue was found in a meth lab? Was he aware of the ancient african stone bowl sitting on the mantle piece?

Sherlock found himself flooded with questions when he approached the topic of John, even though he’d already guessed nearly everything about him from his first deduction. That round of first deductions was the only one anyone ever seemed to find interesting, rather than something a know-it-all prick would do.

"You never got to finish your meal," Sherlock said, standing up gracefully. "Did you even pay?"

"The server said it was on the house, and I couldn’t really, since you were booking it down the street before I could try the dressings."

Sherlock walked to his desk which was covered in papers, a dusty statue, and an old mug. His laptop was there as well, hidden between stacks of books.

Nearly everything in the apartment was in place and appealing to the eye, but the pieces of furniture that were specifically Sherlock’s were a tad disorganized, his madman of a brain spilling out onto the large surfaces. 

John picked at the loose thread of his sleeve while the high cheekboned man pulled sifted through his desk, pulling out a small piece note with a phone number on it.  
Taking his phone out of his pocket smoothly, Sherlock dialed up the late night Chinese To-Go restaurant and began to order.

He nodded to John after saying hello, to which John asked for some chicken chow mein and sweet and sour pork. He always had an appetite, the thought of late night Chinese sounding more delicious with each order.

Sherlock hung up and slipped his phone cooly back into his pocket, returned to his seat near John, and asked John a question.

"Do you think you’ll be able to put up with my working style?"

John snickered under his breath. This man had just had him chasing a cab and leaving his cane in the dust, and now he asked if there was a problem.

"Yes, I think so." Now it was his turn to stand up. Luckily, his legs agreed and he hobbled into the kitchen. "Doesn’t look like you have food, but you do have drinks?"  
John went to open the refrigerator, and, ignoring Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath as a sign of preparation from the living room, John was met with different types of specimens, including detached fingers and toes.

"Do you really need to use - "

"It keeps them fresh," Sherlock received John’s skepticism with little trouble. "Come on, we can ask Mrs. Hudson if we can borrow something."

Sherlock quickly exited the flat and was heard galloping down the stairs.

John followed closely, but balked when he caught his reflection in one of the small mirrors in the flat. He matted his hair down and wiped his redness away. He wanted to look presentable for some unknown reason.

He waddled down the stairs and followed Sherlock’s rolling voice into Mrs. Hudson’s area, where he found them standing around in a yellow lighted room.  
"Mrs. Hudson," John began as he stepped through the doorway, "Why’re you up?"

"Ah, I’m not a very solid sleeper, dearie. Sherlock keeps me up most nights with his deducing, and ever since I’ve adopted a strange schedule."  
John looked at Sherlock who glanced guiltily at the floor.

"Oh."

"But you already know how much he stays up, I bet he never comes to bed!" Mrs. Hudson smiled, her wrinkled face lighting up in glee.

"We’re not - " the veteran stuttered.

"My dearest Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock cut in, "Do you think you could lend us some drinks? We have some food coming and I haven’t gone shopping yet."

Mrs. Hudson snorted as she flitted about the room and down into the cellar. Her voiced carried up from the chilled stone area, and with a condescending snort, she said, “Sherlock, you don’t do the shopping, I do.”

John stifled a laugh at Sherlock’s embarrassed look, but it left as quickly as it came when Mrs. Hudson appeared once more.

She was holding a bottle of red wine, her eyes twinkling mischievously. John’s face heated when remembering the connotations of red wine and dinner, but Sherlock rushed him out and back up the stairs after taking the bottle, thanking his landlady, and giving her a quick peck on the cheek.

Sherlock hustled up the stairs before John. John caught himself looking at the detective’s bouncing rear and he mentally slapped himself. Red wine and wandering eyes would not end well, he thought.

Sherlock and John cleared a small area in the center of the flat and dragged a small, round table over. Sherlock opened the wine early to let it set before he answered the door and retrieved the food.

"Mmm," John said, eyeing the steam rising from the plastic bags. The to go boxes were distributed, as well as chopsticks, and the men began to dig into their food ravenously. 

Watching Sherlock eat was definitely an experience. He had said to John that very night that he never ate while working because digestion slowed him down.

Now, his sat, hunched over, a bare elbow on each knee, his dress shirt revealed without the dark suit jacket. Sherlock’s face was tilted towards his food, and although he lifted his utensil like a gentlemen, his hunger and eagerness to please his growling stomach came out and he began to eat as if the queen weren’t watching.

Sherlock was a sight. His sleeves were pushed up past his forearms, and John suddenly felt less than sexy in his beige jumper. He disregarded it when he caught a small slurping noise coming from Sherlock’s direction, and when he looked up from his noodles, Sherlock had a single strand dangling from his plump lips.

John snorted, and that snort turned into a chuckle. He couldn’t contain his chuckle and it became a laugh, a laugh so loud and hard that he nearly dropped his food as he roared back.

Sherlock stared at him puzzlingly, quietly slurping the noodle into his mouth.

When John had hit the hardest of point of laughter, silence, Sherlock asked innocently, “What?”

It took a while for John to calm down, but once he wiped the tear from his eye, his took a breath into his sore ribs and explained why he nearly died of laughter.  
"I’m sitting here with a ‘consulting detective’ who wears fancy dress shirts and suit jackets every day. He doesn’t eat on the job and he has bloody fingers in his fridge. He stands tall and formal and you would swear he’s a machine but… here he is, in my flat, slurping his noodles like a fool.”

John’s cheeks hurt from smiling, but he grinned anyway, the sight of Sherlock figuring out the joke making him love it more.

"You called it your flat," Sherlock said, letting only the smallest glimpse of hope come through his eyes. Mycroft always said caring was not an advantage, and to have John as a partner was enough of an advantage.

John’s huge grin settled into a smug, tight smirk with the weight of Sherlock’s words.

"I s’pose I did…" He looked down into his food.  
  
"Don’t do that look, here, just drink your wine." Sherlock’s tone of voice towards John had changed from the strict, official, factious way of the morning to the friendly and colloquial flow he used then. John noticed it and remembered how he thought Sherlock would never be the type to laugh, let alone eat Chinese food at two in the morning with him.

He met Sherlock’s eyes, which were so very green at the moment, and he took his full glass from the small table.

Without relinquishing eye contact with the detective, John took his first sip.

The warmth and bite of the wine hit John deliciously.

"Welcome home, John." Sherlock said before he delved into his meal.


End file.
